Alphabet Soup for Passover
by sydedalus
Summary: Short ficlets from A to Z as House and Wilson visit Wilson’s family for Passover. HW established relationship. Plotless comedy planned but anything could happen.
1. A is for Aardvark

**Title:** Alphabet Soup for Passover  
**Rating:** T  
**Spoilers:** none  
**Summary:** Short ficlets from A to Z as House and Wilson visit Wilson's family for Passover. HW established relationship. Plotless comedy planned but anything could happen.  
**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no pretense to ownership, don't sue please.

* * *

**A is for Aardvark**

House shifted his leg for the fifteenth time since Trenton. Wilson knew because he'd been counting.

"Jersey is a boring state," House commented. Again.

Wilson ignored him. It was a beautiful day, traffic was flowing well on I-295, and House's inability to settle into one of the many journals and magazines he'd brought for the three day trip to Wilson's parents' house wasn't going to interfere with his driving. Just because House's crotch rocket couldn't carry both of them _and _their luggage to D.C…. Wilson took a deep, relaxing breath, and wiggled into a position that was kinder to his lower back.

"Ooo, Nebraska," House said. "Don't see that often." He held up his hands to count off the state license plates he'd seen. "So that's Jersey, New York, Massachusetts, D.C., Maryland, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, and Nebraska." He turned to Wilson, his expression obscured by a pair of sunglasses. "Nebraska before Vermont and Rhode Island. Hey, are you going to pass Nebraska or let everyone else pass us because Nebraska's slow?"

Wilson gripped the steering wheel like a strangler with a thick-necked victim. He was already nervous about how his parents would treat him this time, never mind the stage fright he always got during a Seder, and though he'd told House over and over how anxious this visit made him, House insisted on adding to the tension. He ground his hands against the steering wheel, feeling the head of each metacarpus challenge the hard leather.

"Seriously. This guy's doing sixty, tops."

Wilson flipped the turn signal on, but House refused to shut up as more cars passed them.

"I mean, I know you don't really want to go, but don't make _me _suffer because of it."

Wilson caught him pressing his right palm against his blue jeans much harder than he should given the Vicodin he'd popped less than an hour ago. He strangled the steering wheel again.

"Aww, come on," House whined. "Stuck behind a grain-producing state that no one can find on a map—come on."

Wilson wanted to snap at him so badly, but he knew House was baiting him into snapping. He didn't know why—probably because House was a jerk—but he didn't want to give him the satisfaction. So instead, he reached into his memory for a road trip game better than House's state license plate hunt.

"I'm going to a picnic," Wilson began, "and I'm taking Andrew Lloyd Weber's second Tony award."

A smile spread over House's face. "Composers? All right. I'm going to a picnic and I'm taking Andrew Lloyd Weber's second Tony award and Beethoven's tinnitus."

"I'm going to a picnic and I'm taking Andrew Lloyd Weber's second Tony award, Beethoven's tinnitus, and Chopin's tubercular left lung."

"I'm going to a picnic and I'm taking Andrew Lloyd Weber's second Tony award, Beethoven's tinnitus, Chopin's tubercular left lung, and Dvořák's chamber pot."

Wilson began to smile, too. After Elvis's blue suede shoes, Franz Schubert's last lieder, Giacamo Puccini's pen, Haydn's Sturm und Drang period, and Igor Stravinsky's French citizenship, they finally passed Nebraska.

Wilson's memory failed him at Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky's closet. House teased him for tripping over the word "closet" in such a way that Wilson knew he'd just given House great material for the trip. He groaned and made his best hangdog face, but House ignored him.

After a while, House settled back into restlessness.

"Ooo, there's Vermont."

…

"Should I wear a skull cap, or would I get Gentile dirt all over it?"

"It would cover your bald spot."

"In that case, you should wear a girdle."

Wilson ground the steering wheel.

…

"North Carolina. Wanna bet on the next one?"

"Bet what?"

"Next tank of gas."

"Only if I get to pick first."

"Cheater. Go ahead."

"Virginia."

"No way. Florida."

…

"Florida!"

Wilson's metacarpals ached but he forced them into the leather anyway.

…

Traffic kept them in the left lane next to a minivan for nearly five minutes. House became suspiciously silent.

When Wilson finally glanced over at him, House had his nose against the glass and his thumbs in his ears, waving his fingers like antlers at two laughing kids in the minivan's backseat.

And when the minivan slowed slightly and a large man's red face came into view and Wilson noticed him strangling his own steering wheel, Wilson sighed heavily.

"We should have flown," he grumbled.

"With my fear of airborne infection?" House retorted.

Wilson sniffed derisively.

…

"Ohio. That was unexpected."

…

"_West_ Virginia. Wow. You suck."

…

"Kentucky! Still no Virginia, loser."

…

"Maybe I _will _wear a skull cap."

…

House snickered.

"Tchaikovsky's closet."

Wilson hit the steering wheel, his hands too sore to squeeze it any longer.

"All right," he said. "I'm going on a picnic and I'm taking an aardvark."


	2. B is for Bubbles

Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

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**B is for Bubbles**

"Who spawned?" House asked as they pulled into the driveway.

A girl of about ten or eleven whirled in a circle, trying to encase herself in a giant soap bubble. House noticed the middle-back-length brown hair, the tasteful pink top and white shorts, the thin arms, legs, and figure, and the ease with which she spun. Not yet menstruating, no middle ear problems, decent taste for a ten year old, probably not addicted to video games, possibly immature for her age if creating giant bubbles was enough to amuse her. Or she was smart, House considered, remembering his yoyo.

"My brother," Wilson answered, putting the car in park. "David."

House tilted his head upward as if he were sniffing the air.

"She's cute," he declared, and reached for his cane. Not one stop since the lower end of Jersey. He'd happily pace circles around her giant bubbles.

"Haven't seen her in five or six years," Wilson said with a mix of reflection and melancholy.

"Well," House said, widening his eyes at Wilson—the House signal for mayhem. "You're about to."

In the time it took them to open the car doors, the girl had disappeared, but they'd both heard her shouting "Uncle James is here!"

Wilson mumbled to himself. House popped a Vicodin before lifting himself out of the car.

They'd gotten half-way to the door when Wilson's mother burst out of the house trailed by the girl.

"James!"

House stood back and watched with amusement as Wilson's mother managed to smother him with a hug despite the five inches he had on her in height and the ten pounds she had on his weight.

While the girl waited her turn, House noticed her notice him and his third appendage. She took him in, top to bottom and back, and he began reading her reaction. Curiosity. A mild sense of fear which disappeared as soon as he detected it. She wanted to approach him but the manners she'd been taught held her back. He added one mark on the positive side for her. They could work on the manners thing.

The slough of hugs, kisses, and Yiddish phrases ended, and House braced himself for his turn.

"So this is the Doctor House you always talk about," Wilson's mother said, appraising him much more slowly than Wilson's niece had.

"Yes," Wilson said, stepping to the side to let his mother walk toward House. "Mom, this is Greg. House, mom."

House smiled politely and offered his hand.

She approached cautiously, not hiding a glance from his cane to his face. "We hug in this family. I can hug you?"

"You won't break anything," House retorted, standing still. "Not in me, at least."

She chuckled and turned her head to Wilson. "Just like your father, a joker," she said, and smothered House in a similar hug.

House put an arm around her awkwardly and flashed 'you're welcome, you owe me' with his eyes to Wilson's 'thank you.' He observed the girl who'd observed the exchange.

"And you must be Judy," Wilson said to his niece, opening his arms to offer her a hug.

House watched them as best he could while trying to keep his ribs in their original un-broken state.

"James didn't mention no one feeds you," Mrs. Wilson said. "He should cook for you some time. He's a very good cook. I taught him."

"Please call me Judith, Uncle James," the girl said, offering her hand instead.

Wilson shook it. "Judith."

House watched as she hugged him—not at all like the way Mrs. Wilson was still hugging him. When Mrs. Wilson finally did pull away, the motion made his pills rattle in his coat pocket.

"What's this?" she asked, pressing a hand over the bottle.

"House takes medication—" Wilson began.

"For your leg?" Mrs. Wilson finished, looking into his eyes to find the answer.

"For my sense of humor," House replied.

She chuckled again and batted his chest where the pills were, then turned to her son.

"Why do you call him by his last name?" she asked, her tone close to accusing.

"He likes it, mom," Wilson replied breezily.

"It's so impersonal," she said, and turned back to House. "I should call you what he calls you?"

"As long as you don't call me Surely," House responded.

She chuckled again.

"Your parents, they call you by your last name?" she asked.

"They call me Greg."

Mrs. Wilson smiled. "James, go see your father," she instructed over her shoulder.

House watched Judith offer Uncle James her hand to lead him toward the house. Wilson accepted.

Then, to House's surprise, Mrs. Wilson stepped to his left side and slipped her arm into his.

"Tell me about yourself, Greg," she said and stepped forward slowly.

House smiled and stepped with her. _I could be a Jew_, he said to himself in Mel Brooks' voice.

"Well," he began, "what would you like to know?"


	3. C is for Cupcake

Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

* * *

**C is for Cupcake**

"Oh, there's my son David," Mrs. Wilson said, stopping herself and House in the kitchen where David had stopped Wilson's progress toward his father.

House kept his eye on Wilson's niece, who was busy monitoring both her father's conversation with Uncle James and the appearance of her bubbe with Uncle James' friend. He liked kids. To a point.

Mrs. Wilson sent House's Wilson to find Mr. Wilson again and introduced House to the other Wilson. House took him in quickly. Boring. Then the other Wilson introduced the girl. She shook his hand like her father had. Her eyes brimmed with questions, but again he saw her manners interfering with her curiosity. He would take care of that.

But not right now, because Mrs. Wilson was busy whisking him away toward Mr. Wilson, speaking in a constant stream of information, family critique, and questions. House was pleased; here was someone who thought and spoke almost as quickly as he did—no filtering, but not as blunt, because though she criticized, she didn't actively dislike as much as he did. Floating on the steady information feed, he kept pace with her as they moved through the house. He needed nothing else: he liked this woman.

When they finally reached Mr. Wilson's study, the only musty room in the whole place according to Mrs. Wilson, House watched his Wilson stand up from the squat he'd held next to his father's arm chair. An eight inch black and white television blared on a small table in front of the arm chair; House found himself taken aback by the antiquity of the television. Not so much by the antiquity of the man.

"James, cupcake, get David to help you with your things," Mrs. Wilson said.

Wilson obeyed instantly—suddenly, House understood so much more about dear Jimmy—and they communicated silently in the few seconds Wilson took to leave the room.

_Cupcake? Really?_

_Don't start._

_Cupcake!_

_Shut up!_

_Cupcake cupcake cupcake!_

House grinned at the ancient arm of Mr. Wilson and the outline of his black and white TV.

"…would like to move to Boca Raton, but Saul refuses to retire."

Mrs. Wilson's chattering hadn't ceased despite the amazing revelation of his Wilson's nickname. _Cupcake!_ Too delighted to stop himself from smiling, House shook hands with Mr. Wilson while he repeated the phrase _My Closeted Cupcake_ to himself.

House suffered through another handshake—the other Wilson's wife, whom they'd somehow missed earlier—and more talk about moving to Florida before Mrs. Wilson showed him where he'd be sleeping—and, _bingo_, there was Wilson putting suitcases down and chatting with his brother.

Then House did something he rarely did: he played the cripple card.

Mrs. Wilson frowned and clucked and looked ready to stick a thermometer in his ear when he said he needed to lie down for a little while to rest his leg. House barely kept himself together between the startled, disapproving faces Wilson was making to his left and the hilarious similarities between Mrs. Wilson's clucking and his Wilson's clucking to his right.

"Come on, David," Mrs. Wilson said to her son. She looked to her other son with an expression that was half-reproachful and half-'you'd better take care of your friend'. "James."

House switched places with Wilson's brother, feigning pain and fatigue until Mrs. Wilson, with one final, pointed look at _Cupcake_, pulled the door to a crack.

Wilson positively scowled at House, who'd broken into soundless laughter.

House crept closer and closer to Wilson until he'd pinned Wilson against the nightstand. House stopped grinning just long enough to kiss Wilson, then sat down on the bed and started laughing again.

"It's not that funny," Wilson hissed.

Helpless, his stomach muscles burning from lack of oxygen, House simply nodded. _Yes it is. Cupcake_.

Wilson sighed, shook his head, and went back to hanging his and House's suit jackets in the closet.

Eventually, House calmed down enough to speak. "How long before she comes looking for you?" he whispered.

"Less than five minutes," Wilson answered from across the room. He narrowed his eyes at House, reading House's face, until he understood what House meant.

"No!" he hissed, screwing his face up with disgust. "Not here. Not with them here."

House smiled at the look of pure horror on Wilson's face. "I'm guessing you never brought a date home during high school," House commented, reaching down to untie his shoes.

Wilson gestured toward the door. "It's impossible to get past her," he said in a strained whisper.

"Yeah," House answered, rolling his eyes, "because you're afraid of her."

Wilson glared at him. "You would be too."

Kicking his shoes off, House lay back, hands behind his head. "No way. Your mom's totally cool."

"You're not her son," Wilson hissed.

House chuckled and let out a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Then we're going to have to sneak out of here. Take the car somewhere. Because I can't go three days with nothing."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Yes, you can. So can I."

House opened his eyes and turned his head toward Wilson, who was still standing—House laughed inwardly—in front of the closet. "Let me rephrase. I don't _want_ to go three days with nothing."

"You think I do?" Wilson hissed back.

House grinned mischievously. "She can't be everywhere all the time. That's my job."

Wilson groaned. "This might actually kill my dad, if he finds out," he said.

House shrugged. "Better him than you."

Wilson groaned again. "_Hou-se_."

House grinned again. "_Cup-cake_."

Wilson huffed and fled the room, leaving a very amused House behind.


	4. D is for Detective

Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Thanks for all of the kind reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying the story as much as I am.

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**D is for Detective**

Even with his eyes closed, House could detect the presence of Wilson's niece peering through the crack in the door.

Brown eyes remarkably similar to Wilson's met his when he lifted his eyelids.

She didn't hesitate, slipping through the door as soon as she'd seen him notice her.

"Uncle James wants to know if you're ready to come out," she said matter-of-factly, her hands clasped together politely in front of her body.

House lifted his head. "Uncle James sent you to ask me that?"

She rocked on her heels, slowly glancing sideways. "Not exactly," she answered. "But he wants to know."

"You mean _you _want to know," House supplied.

She shrugged, her lips squishing together, and rocked on her heels again.

Neck beginning to ache, House pushed himself up on his elbows. "What's wrong with 'Judy,' Judith?"

She stopped rocking and confronted him with one of those Wilson stares. "It's not very adult."

House pulled his face into a partial 'you're an idiot' expression. "Neither are you," he replied, taking his time to look her over as she'd looked him over in the driveway. "Yet."

She ignored his comment and took a step closer, insatiably curious. House could feel the question coming.

"What happened to your leg?"

"I fell down," House answered.

She tried to mimic the adult eye-narrowing, but, House noted, her face wasn't quite grown up enough to pull it off.

"Uncle James said you had an infarction," she said, taking another step closer.

House pulled his face again. "'Infarction' is a big doctor word for 'I fell down'." Part of him was very annoyed with Cupcake right now and vowed revenge.

"He said it left a scar," she stated, her eyes wandering over his blue jeans, trying to see through them. "Can I see?"

House narrowed his eyes theatrically. "What would I get out of it?"

"I'll show you my appendix scar," she said hopefully. Then her face and shoulders drooped. "It's kind of boring."

House nodded emphatically. "Appendix scars usually are."

She studied the floor for a moment, then looked up at him with hope, the question flashing in her eyes again. _Can I see?_

House sighed, hating himself for feeling obligated to conform to convention.

"Do you know what happens when a man my age pulls his pants down in front of someone your age?" he asked.

Judith blushed slightly, staring at the floor, and clasped her hands behind her back. "He goes to jail."

"Sucks, doesn't it?" House said.

She nodded, clearly disappointed, and drew her lips inward until they formed a tiny ball. Then she looked up at him again.

"You and Uncle James are friends," she said.

House lifted an eyebrow. "What's it to ya?"

She rocked on her heels again, apprehensive about something. House watched her fight the apprehension. He _liked_ this kid.

"There are these men who live on our street," she began. "They're really nice."

She rocked again, stared at the floor again, fought apprehension again. House waited, enjoying the show.

"Dad used to say they were friends that lived together," she ventured. "When I asked. When I was little," she clarified.

She looked at him squarely again. Another Wilson stare. "Now he says they're homosexuals. Like this girl in my class—she has two mothers. They're lesbians. They're nice too."

"Lots of nice people where you live," House observed.

She nodded, scrutinizing him carefully. House threw the same scrutiny back at her.

For a full minute they stared at each other, like two dogs deciding whether to fight.

Against his wishes, House acted his part as the adult and broke first. "Go tell Uncle James I'll be out in a minute."

She nodded sharply, still trying to read him, and left in a posture that let him know how reluctant she was to end the conversation.

House lay back again and stared at the ceiling, smiling slightly to himself. Yes. He _liked_ this kid.


	5. E is for Evasion

Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

* * *

**E is for Evasion**

"She knows," House whispered to Wilson as soon as he had the opportunity.

Mrs. Wilson had gone to pour House a drink, still clucking over him, hovering, asking if he was all right. His Wilson's eyes had rolled up so far into their sockets House thought they might do a back flip. Judith, Wilson's brother, and Wilson's brother's wife had all absented themselves until House was left sitting next to his Wilson on the living room sofa.

Wilson's forehead furrowed. "Who knows?" he asked, his voice at regular volume.

"Your niece," House said in an insistently clandestine whisper.

Wilson stared at him—that Wilson stare—then leaned closer to play along. "What does she know?" he whispered with dramatic secrecy.

House narrowed his eyes slightly, then raised an eyebrow, conveying the information silently. He added for good measure, and with a slight leer, "She _knows_."

House watched Wilson process the information, turn his head just so in disbelief—

_No. She doesn't. She can't._

_Oh, but she does._

—and pale sickeningly. Wilson caught his forehead in a palm, then peeked up at House, gaunt and aghast, his mouth hanging open stupidly.

Under normal circumstances, House loved to make him squirm, but this situation was far from normal. So, against his nature—again, what was it with this family that made him go against his nature?—he leaned in and whispered, "I don't thinks she's going to tell anyone."

Wilson gaped. "But—_how_?"

House shrugged just as Mrs. Wilson returned with a glass of lemonade.

"Here you are, Greg," she chirped, folding herself into a chair opposite the couch after House took the proffered glass.

House drank deeply and let out a satisfied 'ahhh' when he came up for air. "Delicious. Thank you."

He sensed Wilson's shock at his good behavior; his smile brightened.

"James was just telling us about what happened to your leg," she said. She leaned forward, offering a hand across the coffee table as if to pat him on the back. "I hope you don't mind."

She glanced quickly at Cupcake. House sensed him squirm and imagined him wanting to roll his eyes. If he didn't have similar power over Cupcake, he'd envy this woman.

"Not at all," House said brightly.

Mrs. Wilson's face melted in sympathy. "What an awful experience," she said. "And there's nothing anyone can do?"

House's smile began to grate. "Nothing I want anyone to do," he answered, just tightly enough for her to understand that he disliked the topic.

And wonder of wonders, she noticed the subtlety and instantly rearranged her face.

"I was just asking James about girlfriends," she said.

Wilson squirmed frantically. House smiled into the lip of the lemonade glass.

"What about you, Greg?"

House almost choked when she—did she really? yes, she did—she _demurred_ at him.

"Such a handsome man," she continued—was she blushing? no, she couldn't be blushing—"Women must fall all over each other for you."

Briefly, House wondered if it were possible for Wilson to burst. The cartoon of Cupcake reddening, boiling, steam shooting from his ears, then finally exploding played out in his head.

He grinned and took a breath. "Well," he began, eyes sparkling with mischief. "There is one woman…"

Wilson's head snapped up.

House made himself blush and fawn. "I admire her from afar."

He leaned closer to Mrs. Wilson, cupping a hand to the side of his mouth as though trying to keep Cupcake from knowing.

"She's our boss."

He felt Wilson groan next to him and he grinned even wider.


End file.
